Hello. My name is Bellymonster and I am fat.
I'm not sure how it happened, precisely. I was thin all through high school. Gained a few pounds while at uni, but I blame it on beer and crap food. Took it off, put it on, took it off....
Kept it on. Got married, not at my ideal weight, but have successfully managed to outweigh my husband for our entire married life, thus far. Successfully may not be the right word.
Two children, no exercise to speak of (it's a shame that vaccuming and endless rounds of dishes don't count for more, isn't it?) and here I am: 35. Fat.
I'm in here, somewhere. Under these layers. MUST. BREAK. FREE.
So....
Weight Watchers it is. The real-life meetings, for accountability's sake. If I only had to plug numbers and food into the internet, I'd lie. Sad, but true.
Am sorta looking forward to it. Am sorta scared outta my tree, because this means I'm admitting that I am fat and need help.
Blogging this will help me be accountable, too. A newer, slimmer, HAPPIER Bellymonster: coming soon.
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
A Place Called Here
It's a book, "A Place Called Here" by Cecelia Ahern. I'm midway through and already know that I will be up reading, far into the night.
It's about a place, called Here, where things go, when they're missing. Socks. Keys. Luggage. The place we've all wondered about, while sorting laundry and discovering that yet another sock is missing its mate.
Here, is where people go, too. Children, adults - while porch lights the world over burn, night after night, to guide them home. Memories go Here, too. The smell of summers, long past, linger Here. An old lover's cologne. A mother's voice, her scent. Here.
And for the first time since Andrew died, I feel some peace. Hopeful that he too, is Here. Happy. Whole. Free.
Easter dinner, in Lakefield. The boys and Mark and I sat around the table with my parents, laughing at Luke's feeding frenzy antics and only half listening to Matthew's constant, happy chatter. Until he "cheers-ed" the table and then stopped, gazing at the empty spot, next to the window.
"Somebody's missing!" he announced, giddily. "Who's missing?"
And I held my breath, we all did...knowing who was missing. And I felt my heart break, just a little, missing the one who was missing.
I miss you, Bamboo. Wishing you Here. Wishing you everything.
It's about a place, called Here, where things go, when they're missing. Socks. Keys. Luggage. The place we've all wondered about, while sorting laundry and discovering that yet another sock is missing its mate.
Here, is where people go, too. Children, adults - while porch lights the world over burn, night after night, to guide them home. Memories go Here, too. The smell of summers, long past, linger Here. An old lover's cologne. A mother's voice, her scent. Here.
And for the first time since Andrew died, I feel some peace. Hopeful that he too, is Here. Happy. Whole. Free.
Easter dinner, in Lakefield. The boys and Mark and I sat around the table with my parents, laughing at Luke's feeding frenzy antics and only half listening to Matthew's constant, happy chatter. Until he "cheers-ed" the table and then stopped, gazing at the empty spot, next to the window.
"Somebody's missing!" he announced, giddily. "Who's missing?"
And I held my breath, we all did...knowing who was missing. And I felt my heart break, just a little, missing the one who was missing.
I miss you, Bamboo. Wishing you Here. Wishing you everything.
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